Blood
by Chanlin Marr
Summary: Great evil can come in small packages.


**Blood**  
By  
Chanlin Marr

"Go ahead! Open it!"

Simon looked at his kid sister with a hint of uncertainty in his eyes. Setting his many-times-read copy of _Macbeth_ on the nightstand beside his bed, Simon sat up, idly scratching under the hem of the top of his pajamas.

"Whats this?" Simon asked, giving the sloppy/cute wrapped package a curious stare.

"Weeell," Kristen bit her lip, "your birthday isn't for another week, but this came yesterday and I couldn't wait."

"Came? You ordered something?" Simon carefully took the gift from her hands, holding it aloft on one palm, surprised at its lack of weight.

8 year old Kristen took the initiative to open the blinds across from Simons bed, spilling the bright, pre-afternoon Sunday sunshine throughout the room.

"Well, kinda," she began. "Y'know those auction things on the internet?" Simon sighed.

"Ah, Kris. Just tell me you didn't spend a lot on me. Those auction things run really high sometimes. Do Mom and Dad know?"

"Will you shush and open it?" Kristen chided. "Dad was the one who helped me get it. And it's the 'thought' that counts, remember? Don't worry about the money. Now, open!!"

Simon sighed once more, but smiled all the same time as he ripped the flimsy black wrapping paper from around the mystery object. Simon's slow, methodical unwrapping (that just about drove his sister up the wall in anticipation) soon revealed a small shipping box, from which he carefully removed a yellowed piece of what appeared to have once been white plaster. What drew Simon's startled stare, however, was the aged, brownish, child-sized handprint that graced the majority of the one side of the piece. Kristen was just about bouncing in suspense.

"Isn't it neat? Do you like it? I saw the description on the site and I _knew_ it was just right for you!"

Simon did his best not to make his perplexed expression a sign of disappointment.

"Um, its neat sis. But, uh, what _is_ it?"

Kristen grinned wider than she had been.

"Ok, ok, you're going to _love_ this! Ok, the handprint? That's _blood_! And the thing on the 'net said that this comes from the house where a Witch used to live, or something. Anyway, I know you're into all that dark ages magic stuff, and I thought it'd be exactly the right thing for you!"

Simon, who kept his personal interests 'personal' as much as he could, was sent slightly ablush by his sisters accurate assumptions. And, while appreciating the thought, he was still unsure as to what he was supposed to _do_ with the gift. But, until then, he thought he might as well cover his tracks.

"I love it sis. Thank you." The smile that followed was enough to win him an Oscar.

Kristen grinned with glee, said something about going out to a movie with her friends, and bounded from his room. This left Simon alone with his new acquisition.

He turned it over in his hands carefully. It was a flat chunk of old plaster, just as he'd suspected. Small pebbles of the stuff and little clouds of dust escaped the item as he examined it. It was as thick as his thumb was wide, and set flat, could probably cover a paperback novel. But the crowning glory of the thing was what weirded him out the most.

The handprint, that looked an _awful_ lot like dried, old blood, was a perfect print of a child's hand. Simon thought perhaps that the macabre nature of the thing had been lost on his sister, in her rush to get him something "neat."

"From the house of a Witch, huh?" He thought aloud. "Well, welcome to Idaho, Ms. Witch."

*** * * ***

The following Monday afternoon, Simon tromped into his room and set his backpack next to his door. He stretched, releasing a school-day's worth of exhaustion from his nearly 17 year-old body. Refocusing his eyes after the stretch, he absently sought out his strange gift. He had spent two hours the night before, constructing a stand for the thing out of coathanger wire so that it would rest comfortably on the top of his dresser.

His gaze found the stand, _looking almost of professional quality_, he allowed his ego.

If only the piece of plaster were still sitting in it.

Simon stood, confused for a moment. It had been sitting there this morning. Where....?

A sharp giggle that almost sounded like....a cackle?... brought him out of his pondering. The sound seemed to be coming from his sister's room, across the hall. Striding to the door, he knocked.

"Kris, are you home already?" Simon thought he heard whispering through the door. _"...how do you...children...deep forest...where...,"_ then silence.

The eerie quiet washed over Simon for a heartbeat. Opening the door, Simon peeked inside.

"Kris, who are you talking to?"

Kristen was sitting cross-legged on the floor at the foot of her bed, her telephone sitting beside her. She was staring up, her eyes a bit unfocused, at the handprinted plaster, resting at an angle on her desk in front of her. Simon's voice snapped her back to reality.

"Huh? Oh, I was just talking with my friend."

Simon saw the phone, but couldn't remember hearing Kris hang it up....

"Oh, well, who was it?"

"My new friend, Elly."

Simon could never keep track of the myriad of friends his sister had, so he just shrugged.

"Whatcha doing with the handprint?"

"Huh? Oh. Just...looking at it. I think it's neat." Simon raised an eyebrow, but said nothing about it.

"Well, when you're done with it, just put it back on the stand in my room, ok?"

"Yeah," was all the reply he received.

Simon exited the room, closing the door gently behind him, and let out a deep breath. His sister was always a little "wired", but this was a little, well, _odd_, even for her. Simon shook off the concern, knowing that homework was calling him to the wonders of Algebra.

But, as he walked back to his room, the quiet whispering and giggling started anew.

*** * * ***

Math. Numbers. A blink. A laugh. A scream.

*** * * ***

Numbers and equations had just about filled his head to the point of explosion. By the time Simon glanced at his desk clock, it was 10:22.

_10:22??_ "That can't be right," he blurted to no one. "I only had 15 problems to do, and I started at 3:30...."

Disorientation warped Simon's brain for a moment. Had he fallen asleep, and not been aware? Or had six and a half hours actually passed without his notice? He looked at the clock again, then checked his wristwatch, then looked out the window.

Darkness.

"Weird," was the only word that came to his befuddled mind. In a slight daze, he walked from his room and across the hall, bringing his hand up to knock on his sister's door, when he caught the sound of her voice:

"...ill you teach me how to fly like you?"

"Kris?" Simon tapped on the door as he turned the knob, pushing it open. The room was dark. His eyes saw nothing for a moment, as they slowly adjusted to the lack of light. He soon found the shape of his sister, drenched in shadow, facing the back corner of the room in her pajamas.

"You still awake, sis? You know, its almost 10:30, and I don't remember the time passing? Did I fall asleep, or something?"

Only silence met his query.

"Kris?"

Simon searched for and found the lightswitch on the wall, and flipped it.

Nothing happened.

A couple of repeated tries issued the same result, so Simon carefully walked into the room to see what his sister was doing there, alone, in the dark.

But before Simon could utter a word, his sister whispered, almost in a sob: "I want to fly, too."

"Kris, what are you doing? Are you alright?"

Simon rushed over to her, putting his hand on her shoulder, turning her towards him.

Simon lurched back in shock as the movement of Kristen's body revealed the corner she had been facing. The dark, wet handprints, dozens of them, shined in the diffused light from the hallway, decorating the wallpaper of birds and flowers. Kristen held her slashed and bloody hands up to Simons fear-widened eyes. She strode towards him, as if to try and embrace him. Simon staggered back in fear, tripping over the doorframe and falling to his back in the hallway. He could see Kris clearly now, reaching for him with her crimson dripping fingers, her eyes dark and hollow. In his silent horror, she whispered to him, almost in tears, "I just want to fly like Elly...." She reached for his face.

Somewhere, Simon heard a scream.

It was his own.

*** * * ***

Kris never told anyone what made her do it. After that night, she never spoke a single word. Ever again.

*** * * ***

The light of dawn spilled across the alley just down the street from Simon and Kristen's house, one week afterwards. After another hour, the warm glowing Sun adjusted in angle to send its rays into the dumpster propped against the one wall of the alley. The dried blood of the plaster's hand took in the comforting energy, drying the print just enough to add a single additional crack along its surface. There was room yet left for many, many more. 


End file.
